


Lip Service

by castoffstarter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castoffstarter/pseuds/castoffstarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry kisses Zayn. Then Zayn kisses Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lip Service

**Author's Note:**

> From an anonymous prompt on Tumblr: Zarry + pining. Remains unbeta'd and quite silly sweet. Just boys moping and kissing. Originally posted [here](http://gentlehousing.tumblr.com/post/46142776338/1-7k-of-um-something-fic-like-under-the-cut).

Maybe it’s that time between winter and spring, where the thaw is slick and the air is humid under jackets and scarves, where the first shoots of green vegetation are too bright under such cloudy skies. Maybe it’s uncertain like that. It’s been three weeks and two days since Harry kissed Zayn under twinkling porch lights, mouth so hot against Harry’s thin lips. Some mornings leaving his flat Harry can almost feel the same humid heat of that night when stepping out of the foyer into the moisture-laden air. It never lasts.

Zayn hasn’t looked him in the eye since, not that they’ve been in the same room more than twice in so much time. The band hasn’t had any important functions to attend or promotion to do, and every text and call and knock on the fucking door has been a useless endeavor. Harry never thought he’d tire of Danny Riach’s face staring at him, but it so often wears a look of pity when they pass in the hall, when Harry’s carrying his rubbish down to the bins the long way just in case he can catch Zayn coming or going, that Harry has begun to resent the bone structure of all pretty people.

Maybe it’s frustrating as hell to be in love with Zayn Malik, especially when Zayn seems set on never speaking to Harry again. The beautiful bastard.

***

Harry knows he’s being ridiculous. “I know I’m being ridiculous!” he shouts into Nick’s chin at some club in South London where Nick’s just finished a dj set. Nick pushes at Harry’s chest to back him up a bit, one hand on his hip holding him steady. He frowns at the picture Harry’s currently making, hair stuck up in frizzy curls all around his head, eyes glassed over from too many shots too fast, and he motions for the bartender to bring a glass of water.

“If you’re going to be on about Zayn Malik again I’m going to send you home in a cab now.” Harry widens his eyes at Nick, headbutting him in earnest, but Nick continues, ignoring the way he’s trying to climb into Nick’s jumper, “I get it, he’s a magical fucking pixie elf with a monster cock, and you’re in love with him. Jesus, Harry, you listen to too much Coldplay.” He half shouts the last bit over the music, voice exasperated but fond.

“He hasn’t got a monster cock, Grim, it’s a perfectly lovely size. Fits him just right, you know.” Harry pauses as if remembering a particularly pleasing memory of various and sundry naked bandmates. Nick tries to school his features into a look of disgust. “Do you think I should call him, d’ya?” Harry’s hands are climbing all over Nick’s shoulders, restless and handsy, the way he always is when he’s been drinking, but his voice is slow and syrupy, thick. “Only Danny said I shouldn’t. He said I should give Zayn time.” His eyebrows are knit together in thought, and he keeps licking his lips, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and then pushing it out, slick and pink. Nick has no idea how Zayn handles the effortless filth that is Harry Styles’ existence, but he doesn’t say so. Harry has enough problems right now.

“Calling him while drunk isn’t going to class up this mess, love.” Nick clucks in sympathy, mostly for himself. Maudlin Harry was not what he signed up for when he invited him out for this gig. He proceeds to catch up with Harry’s level of intoxication, and when they fall into Nick’s bed that night, he doesn’t complain when Harry pushes at him until he can wrap himself around Nick’s torso. He’s a good friend, is what he is.

***

The next day, once Nick has forced him into the shower and fed him enough eggs to stave off the worst of his hangover, Harry stumbles home and directly into Zayn, who’s leaning against his door frame, shoulders pulled tight.

“Hey.” Zayn doesn’t quite meet his eyes when he says it, but he’s at Harry’s flat and he’s wearing Harry’s sweatpants, so Harry reigns in the urge to flatten himself against Zayn’s person and bite. “Danny said you came by.”

Harry frowns. “Once or twice, yeah.” If Zayn is gonna be a dick about it, Harry isn’t gonna make it any easier for him. “If you ever checked your phone you’d know, you twat.”

Zayn’s head shoots up at that, meeting Harry’s frown with one of his own. “Fuck, Harry, are we gonna do this in the hallway?” He ends in a sigh, the bite gone. Harry feels tired but keyed up, too tense for how hungover he still is. He really wants to kiss Zayn again, make him react, pull him apart so that he doesn’t have to feel so exposed on his own.

Instead he opens the door and lets Zayn pass him into the entryway, watches as Zayn heads right for the living room, stopping to toe off his trainers so he can flop onto the sofa. Harry drops his bag beside the door and goes to grab some water from the refrigerator before sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, legs sprawled out in front of him. Zayn’s already turned on the TV, feet propped up on the coffee table and head resting on one of his arms pulled up and resting behind him.

Harry stares at Zayn’s profile, not bothering to hide it. Zayn hasn’t shaved for days so that the soft flop of his hair and dark stubble stands out in greater relief than usual against his skin. Harry wonders when he last left his flat, saw the sun. Zayn’s idly flipping through the channels, his thumb pressing the channel button at random intervals, and Harry knows he’s buying time. This is how Zayn works, Harry thinks; he feigns normal, pretends that Harry isn’t waiting, reorients himself in the face of anything new or challenging.

So Harry stares.

It only takes a few minutes, in the end. One moment they’re watching cartoons and the next Zayn sits up, pulling his legs up onto the couch and turning to face Harry. He’s still frowning, but Harry doesn’t think it’s at him.

“Do you- can I kiss you?” He asks.

Harry doesn’t trust himself to answer so he nods, turns to face Zayn fully.

Zayn nods back, like he’s steeling himself, and shuffles over on his knees until they’re close enough to touch. His head drops to the side, watching Harry watch him, before he leans in, bracing one hand against Harry’s chest, to press their lips together. It’s over in a second, more chaste than their first kiss, and when he pulls back his expression is carefully blank. Harry’s hands are balled into fists at his sides so he doesn’t do something stupid like pull Zayn closer. He doesn’t want to scare him off.

Zayn brings his other hand up to cup Harry’s jaw, his thumb brushing over Harry’s bottom lip so light that it tickles, and leans in again, mouth slightly parted, breathing in when Harry exhales. It continues like this, Zayn kissing Harry with warm puffs of breath and dry lips before pulling back to look at him, and Harry can’t help the way his heart skips a beat each time Zayn leans away again. He feels frantic in the face of Zayn’s calm stare, knows Zayn can see it, feel it under his palm.

The next time Zayn moves in he presses his thumb into the skin just under Harry’s jaw to tilt his head up so he can lean down into him. When he seals their mouths together his tongue swipes a teasing line across Harry’s bottom lip, causing Harry’s lips to part reflexively and his hands to uncurl and grip at Zayn’s hips, pulling him into his lap. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when Zayn pushes his tongue inside hard and fast, licking the backs of his teeth and forcing his jaw open wider. He surges forward, pulls his other leg up onto the couch so Zayn’s knees rest on either side of him and presses their chests flush against each other. Zayn’s got his hands tugging on the still damp curls at the nape of his neck, sucking on his tongue before smearing their lips together, spit slick, slowing them back down as quickly as he sped them up.

When he pulls back Zayn’s got a slow grin curling his lips. “You taste like eggs and manful regret, bro.”

Harry barks out a laugh, slapping a hand over his mouth. He wants to keep touching Zayn, to dig into the skin at Zayn’s hips, bite the smirk off of lips and into the ink along his collarbone, run his nails over a nipple and watch it pebble, but mostly, god, he wants Zayn to keep touching him.

“Had a rough night, I suppose,” he says, clearing his throat. “Had a few, come to think of it.”

Zayn’s grin falters for a moment, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “How much do I owe Grimmy for the damages, then?” He’s trying for a joke, but Harry can hear the uncertainty in his voice. He traces a line down Harry’s jaw from his temple until it rests just short of his mouth, poking at his cheek until Harry smiles and his finger dips into the dimple.

“I think a shirtless selfie will suffice,” he says, laughing at Zayn’s scowl. “Oh come off it, you know he’s obsessed with you. Least you could do, really.”

Zayn leans down once more and kisses Harry once, twice, three times, biting down on his bottom lip the last time. He stands up quickly before Harry can pull him back down and starts backing away from the sofa, moving toward Harry’s bedroom and pulling his shirt off. He tosses it at Harry and grins wickedly.

“All right, but you take the photo, yeah?”


End file.
